In response to
The House Built Out of Stone
The punches begin to land as I turn my back. First on the arms, then my head. Hard. Surprisingly so. She’s screaming something unintelligible at me, the alcohol and cigarettes rancid on her breath. I try to move away and she follows, swinging wildly. Another blow lands on my cheek. The adrenaline courses through my body, muting the impact. Evolutionary response. No pain, even as I taste the blood on my tongue. The nerve endings fire, but they never reach their destination. Brain is busy, please try again later.
Time slows. I struggle to process what is happening. This has never happened before, I stupidly think to myself. True, but unhelpful. Ten seconds have passed. Again, a blow to the head. A quick flash of light in my vision. The next ten seconds don’t promise improvement. I lean forward, back to her, attempting to deflect the strikes. She continues to scream at me. It could be Greek for all I understand of it. Punches land and trickle down my back. She’s tiring quickly. It‘s exhausting, assaulting somebody you love.
I turn my head and look back. Her face is striking, contorted with rage — a parody from the funhouse mirror. I try to focus on her, but I don’t recognize this person in front of me. I hear the bitter, broken voice of my father in my head: she will try to say you did this. I imagine this person crying in front of men in crisp, pressed uniforms, a finger pointed at me. But I don’t know who this person is, officer. I imagine myself sitting inside of a prison cell. I hate myself a little for thinking about that.
20 seconds have passed. I push past her into the living room, my hand straying to my pocket. She follows. More yelling. I catch a snippet: “…made me do this.” The drapes on the window in front of me are a muted beige. Her choice. I prefer bolder colors. Another punch to the back of the head. I almost break out laughing at the absurdity of it all. My phone is in my hand; well-practiced gestures to turn on the video camera. The noise hits a crescendo behind me. I hear the word “police” before she’s upon me again.
She clumsily grabs the arm holding the phone, attempting to take it from me. She doesn’t have the strength to move my arm. I hold it out in front of me. We’re playing the worst game of Keep Away. She tries to slap my hand, but her movements are uncoordinated. She misses. I try to hit the record button. Her teeth sink into my arm. The blood rushes as time speeds back up. I yell out in surprise and pain and push her away from me. 40 seconds. The camera turns on. She approaches me and hits me again.
Her eyes notice the camera. A look of panic washes over her face. She begins to cry. Hard. Surprisingly so. I ask: “Why are you doing this?” I repeat it. Again. On the recording later, my voice will sound hollow, high-pitched, scared. I can’t think of any other words. Why are you doing this? She asks why I hit her. Again, I repeat: why are you doing this? She looks at the camera. Looks around the house, then at me. Her eyes are ablaze and wild. Again, she repeats: Why did I hit her? And her cat, what had I done to her cat? Where was her cat? She cries harder. I try to think of a stronger word than “absurd,” but my vocabulary fails me again.
60 seconds. A lifetime. I’m still recording as she’s walking out the door, promising to come back with police, with large friends of hers, with people who will hurt me once they know what I did to her. The door slams. The cat pushes up against my leg and purrs contentedly.
